Brothers on a River

On losing a sibling and then finding them again.

“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” — Henry David Thoreau

I gently emptied the contents of the package into the flowing water.

We aren’t supposed to put things into the water. But as I floated down the river with my younger brother, we felt it was our sibling duty.

We were returning my older brother back to the place he loved.

We three brothers found peace on the river. I still find calm standing in the waters.

We only fly fish. Ask any fisherman and they will explain the difference.

Fly fishing is an art. I’m competent. I don’t consider myself an artist at all. My older brother was very good. He may have become an artist if he was still alive today. My younger brother is an artist, patiently and skillfully placing the fly exactly where it needs to be in the flowing waters. He catches fish in some of the most challenging rivers in the world. I will sometimes fish for an entire day and catch nothing as the waters are too technical.

I don’t ever mind not catching something. That isn’t why I am there. As Thoreau states, it is not the fish we are after.

I am there because the chaos of the world cannot navigate the waters. When turmoil tries to encroach, it is gently washed away downstream. The rivers are no place for the ills of humankind. A person connects with their soul in these natural cathedrals.

I’ve never been a religious person although I am deeply spiritual. I’ve read various texts and been to places of worship. I like the quietude of a church or a mosque. I don’t find peace in the letters.

My church is nature. This is where I feel God. I am at home in the woods and rivers of the world. I was most at home when I was fishing with my two brothers.

But then one was taken away.

I went fishing with my younger brother, Mike, on Silver Creek in Idaho recently.

Silver Creek is a challenging river, with slow-moving, very quiet waters. Anything short of a perfect cast that lands the fly naturally on the water spooks the fish. I caught nothing. He caught many.

As I stood in the river I felt connected to both of my brothers.

Mike was doing the fishing for the three of us but we were all together. We were the only ones on the river that day. Those are the best days when you have a river to yourselves.

The waters also tell our human story. While we argue and debate, label, and divide, we fail to remember that we are all connected as one just as all of the waters of the world are connected. A raindrop in Bali will flow to the ocean and eventually enter the waters of Idaho. The droplets resonate with each other, and flow in unison.

We forget this as humans that we are all connected, that we share the same river.

It is how life works whether we want to accept it or not. We are born, we live, we die. We are all on the same journey. The waters are just different for each of us.

But in the end we end up in the same river. Together.

Three brothers on a river.

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